these battle scars don't look like they're fading
by eponnia
Summary: Post-Canon. Today is the trial of one Maxwell Wallace, formerly known as Wizard, and there is a twelve-year-old on the witness stand. [Part IV of the "polaroid snapshots" series. Mainly Connelly-Novacek-Taylor family dynamics with some Louyla. One-shot.]


**AUTHOR'S NOTE: It gives me so much joy to just simply write the name Evan Novacek-Connelly.**

 **The title is from "Battle Scars" by Guy Sebastian and Lupe Fiasco. The rest of the song really… really doesn't fit the rest of this fic, but this one was surprisingly hard to find a title for, so I have to work with what I can find.**

* * *

"Your honor, I would like to call Evan Novacek-Connelly to the stand."

Lyla's hand instantly finds Louis' as Evan is brought into the courtroom, looking even smaller than normal against the backdrop of the massive wood-paneled room. Their lawyer's paralegal, Miss Jones, walks with Evan to the stand; though the twelve-year-old looks nervous, he offers the young woman a faint smile as she leaves.

From their place in the observation seats, neither Louis nor Lyla can look away from their son. As Evan is sworn in, one small hand raised with the other on the Bible, Louis glances at the man in the orange jumpsuit chained to the desk. Even while handcuffed, Maxwell Wallace has an odd, almost unnerving look in his eyes as he glares at Evan. Suddenly Louis wants to rush from the observation seats, take his son far away, and possibly strangle the red-haired man. But Lyla's lawyer is approaching the witness stand, and Louis forces himself to stay in his seat.

"Do you know this man, Evan?" the woman says in a no-nonsense tone, streaks of grey in her dark hair, but Mrs. Stevens' voice isn't exactly demanding either. Evan is a key witness, but Louis is grateful she isn't treating the boy like an adult at Evan's tender age.

The boy nods and says something Louis can hardly hear.

"I need you speak into the microphone so everyone can hear you. Can you repeat your answer?"

"Yes," Evan says, pulling the microphone stand down to his level. "I know him."

"When did you meet him?"

Evan's gaze flickers to his parents across the room, but Mrs. Stevens steps forward. "You can't look at your family for cues. Please focus on me and answer the question."

Lyla's fingers tighten on Louis' hand as Evan obeys the lawyer. "I met Wizard when I was eleven. I ran away from the orphanage to find my parents, and met him while I was looking for them."

"He told you his name was Wizard?"

Evan shakes his head. "Arthur told me his name was Wizard. Arthur was one of the other musicians. Well, he told me Wizard's real name was Maxwell Wallace once, but no one called Wizard that."

Mrs. Stevens puts her hands on her hips. "How did you first meet Mr. Wallace?"

"When I came to New York City, I met Arthur and he took me to the theatre. I bought a pizza for the kids living there."

"Was the building in use? Was it a functioning theatre?"

Evan shakes his head. "No. It was old and run down. There was caution tape on the front door and some of the windows were boarded up."

"How many children were living in the theatre?"

Evan pauses. "Fifteen, I think?"

Mrs. Stevens purses her lips. "Are you sure of your answer?"

"I did not meet everyone, but I believe there were fifteen kids."

"Did any of them have families?"

"Not that I know."

The lawyer crosses her arms over her chest. "Can you describe to the court the details of your first meeting with Mr. Wallace?"

Evan licks his thin lips. "The other kids were dividing up the pizza when Wizard threw a knife onto the floor."

Lyla audibly gasps in horror.

"He threw a knife?" Mrs. Stevens asks. "Did he throw it directly at you or the other children?"

"No. It was just on the floor to get everyone's attention." Evan swallows. "He started yelling about family money and who paid for the pizza."

The lawyer puts her hands on her hips. "Family money?"

"The family money was what the kids made singing and playing music that day. They pooled together, and he would collect it all at the end of the day."

"Did you sing or play music for him?"

Evan nods again. "Yes."

"Would you say Mr. Wallace was employing you?"

The boy shrugs. "Kind of. But I thought that when you have a job you get paid, not you paying your boss?"

Mrs. Stevens manages a smile. "That is correct. Did he collect your money while you worked for him?"

He nods.

"I need you to speak your answers so the court reporter can write them down."

"Yes, Mrs. Stevens."

"So he collected your money?"

"Yes."

The lawyer begins to pace. "Did anything else happen when you first met this man?"

"Arthur told him that I paid for the pizza. I asked if Wizard was running a music school, and he said it was a business."

Louis feels physically ill.

Mrs. Stevens freezes, professional poker face wavering for a split second, and her tone is different when she asks, "What kind of a business?"

"A music business. We would sing on street corners, and he would take our money at the end of the day."

The lawyer pauses. "Did Mr. Wallace ever touch you in a way you didn't like?"

Louis seriously wonders if he is going to vomit when Evan answers in the affirmative, and Lyla's grip is so tight his hand is starting to go numb. They had both talked with Evan about his time with Wizard, but he had never told them about any inappropriate relations with the man. Yet their son had always seemed completely honest with them, never once shying from physical contact, and Louis can't fathom why Evan would withhold information of this degree until now.

"Before you answer my next question," Mrs. Stevens continues gently, "I want you to know that this is a safe place. Mr. Wallace can't hurt you anymore. Do you understand?"

"I do," Evan says quietly.

"Good." The lawyer draws a breath. "I know it won't be… fun to describe this, but I need you to tell me every time Mr. Wallace touched you, okay?"

"Okay."

Mrs. Stevens approaches the witness stand. "Start from the beginning."

"Um, well the first time I remember was when we were at the park. We were talking about my stage name for when I played my guitar. I didn't want to change my name, but he said I had to. We decided on August Rush, and he was talking about how cool I would be with that name, and he gave me a piggyback ride."

"Did he touch you in any other ways other than a piggyback ride?"

"Not then. But another time he was making phone calls to get me a gig, and I could see he was more stressed out than most days. I was playing my guitar while he was talking on a payphone, and when he hung up, he said that I had to stop playing my guitar. I said that I didn't want to, and he grabbed me by the coat. He shoved me up against one of those – you know, the metal gate things that they have at the mall for the stores when they close for the night?"

Lyla makes a faint choking sound.

"A security grille?" Mrs. Stevens tilts her head. "Were you at the mall?"

"Objection!" Maxwell's lawyer calls. "Leading the witness!"

"Overruled," the judge counters. "She was asking a clarifying question. Proceed, Mrs. Stevens."

Evan looks startled by the exchange, but adds, "We were on a street outside. I don't remember where. It was dark."

"What did Mr. Wallace do to you next?" Mrs. Stevens asks.

"I told him I had to play for my parents so they could hear my music, but he said they were probably dead."

"Did he touch you in any other way right then?"

"He put his hand on my neck."

Tears begin to slide down Lyla's cheeks, but all Louis can feel is white hot rage boiling inside him.

"Did he try to choke you?" Mrs. Stevens inquires.

"No. I thought he was going to, but he didn't. We walked back to the theatre after that."

"Did he touch you any other times?"

"He tried to grab me when I left for my concert."

Mrs. Stevens shifts her weight from one heeled foot to the other. "Please elaborate."

"After he took me from my rehearsal, I wanted to go conduct my concert, but he didn't want to let me go. He only stopped when Arthur hit him with Roxanne, and then I was able to run away through the subway station."

Mrs. Stevens raises an eyebrow. "Roxanne?"

"Arthur's guitar. He hit Wizard so hard Roxanne broke."

A younger Louis might have flinched at the thought of destroying a guitar, but now his focus is on Evan and Evan alone.

"I see," Mrs. Stevens says. "Did Mr. Wallace touch you any other times?"

"No."

"Did he ever threaten you with the knife you mentioned earlier?" she asks.

"Objection! Leading the witness!" Maxwell's lawyer cries.

"Sustained," the judge answers, hitting the gavel, and Evan jumps a bit at the sound.

"Did Mr. Wallace ever threaten you?" Mrs. Stevens continues.

"Other than when I thought he was going to choke me and the day I ran away, no."

"Did he threaten any of the other children?"

Evans shrugs. "Not that I know."

Though the twelve-year-old puts on a brave face, Louis can see his son is tiring from the endless inquiry. But Evan is a key witness, and so the trial continues.

He answers questions about if Wizard ever verbally or emotionally abused him, and how many hours Evan and the other children had to play their music. But Louis already guesses the answer when Mrs. Stevens asks about how often the children were fed before Evan opens his mouth. The twelve-year-old hadn't exactly been starving when they found him, but the doctors were worried about his weight.

Evan tells the court that he had often gone to bed cold due to a shortage of blankets, and that no one was taken anywhere near a doctor or a hospital. He even describes how everyone had to carefully schedule individual trips to nearby bars as not to tip off patrons or employees when the children used the bathrooms. Even if the theatre had showers and bathtubs in the dressing rooms, they were used for beds and not their intended purpose, with no water bills being paid or running water that Evan was aware of.

But finally Mrs. Stevens ends her questioning, and Miss Jones appears to take Evan away as a boy named Arthur is called next to the stand. As the dreadlocked boy is sworn in, Louis and Lyla are already heading for the door.

They hurry through the marbled hallways of the courthouse, and Lyla breaks into a short run to close the last few steps between her and their son as she and Louis turn the corner. Evan throws his arms around her instantly, and she runs a hand over his hair.

"He did extremely well," Miss Jones says, and Louis offers the young woman a distracted smile, his focus still on his family.

"Is there anything else he is needed for?"

The paralegal offers Louis an apologetic smile. "Possibly, and so he will need to stay the rest of the day. However," she adds, holding up a hand as Lyla protests, "he does not need to be in the courtroom itself unless specifically called back. He has to stay in the building, but you both can wait with him. Just make sure he doesn't speak with anyone else involved in the case, or discuss it when you go home at the end of the day."

Louis is just grateful they can be near Evan again after the agony of being separated for the past few hours. "We'll make sure. And thank you."

"Are you hungry, sweetheart?" Lyla asks their son as the paralegal leaves, and Evan's face lights up at the simple term of endearment.

They spend the next few hours on an ornate bench right outside the courtroom doors, watching witnesses like Evan's former Julliard professor and Richard Jeffries going in and out. Evan is too tired to talk much to even his parents, but they try to keep him quiet anyway with the red iPod Nano that Louis had bought him for Evan's first birthday celebrated with them. Exhausted from the questioning, the twelve-year-old even briefly falls asleep as he sits between his mother and father, but neither are about to wake him.

But after eight more hours, they are asked to return to the courtroom for the verdict; this time, however, Evan is allowed to stay with his parents in the observation seats. Louis keeps a hand on his son's small shoulder to reassure him, but Louis himself can't relax until the judge pronounces Maxwell guilty of all charges and sentences him to prison.

* * *

After putting Evan to bed that night, they go to the living room of the apartment.

Lyla's hands are curled around a mug of chamomile tea, but the drink of choice in Louis' grasp is a beer. He barely touches the bottle, however, as they lean against each other on the couch, and she rests her head against his collarbone as he puts an arm around her shoulders.

"I'm just glad that the trial didn't go any longer than it did," he whispers. "I wasn't sure how much more Evan could take."

"It's over now," she says in a low voice. "And that's what matters."

"But is it really? Ev's still clearly affected from what he went through."

She shifts closer to him. "What do you see?"

His grip tightens on his beer. "It makes sense that he's into music, given who we both are, but he's almost… obsessive about it? The thing is, he always puts in ten times the effort whenever he knows someone is around. If he doesn't notice I'm watching, he enjoys music well enough, but he changes when he sees you or I. But it doesn't seem as if he wants to just impress us, either. Well, maybe it is, but he seems to want to show that he's working hard enough on it. To _prove_ that he's dedicated enough."

His jaw clenches. "And given that he had to make money with his music when he was _eleven_ , he must have picked that up from Maxwell Wallace. No one in their right mind would have taught him something like that. Music is in all our blood, but we have lives outside of it. Evan seems to think he can't do anything _but_ music."

She leans forward to put her mug on the coffee table, and curls back into his side. "I've noticed that too. He doesn't want to eat while he's composing or rehearsing. Remember what I told you about how grounding him from music because he refused to eat? We both know how that backfired, but it didn't change much in the end. He's still pushing himself to keep going, no matter how many times I ask him if he's hungry. Only when he looks like he's going to faint will he actually eat something, and then he'll go right back to his music. Notes on a page are not more important than life. Look at the two of us. We both gave up music for a decade, and we _lived_. But Evan seems to think he can't survive without it."

They sit quietly together for a long moment, and he takes a swallow of his beer before asking, "Do you think we should take him to a counselor?"

They are artists themselves, but Louis has never met someone like Evan. There have been prodigies before and there will be again, but most people don't depend on music like it is the very air they breathe. And as much as Louis loves his son with every fiber of his being, he has no idea what to do. It's one thing to be landed with the challenge raising a kid in of itself when he has no experience with children. But there are books and articles about general parenting; this situation might be about music, but it is past his understanding or expertise.

"I think that would be wise," Lyla sighs, and bites her lip. "I don't know how to handle this anymore. And I feel _horrible_ , because I should be able to help him. But I can't."

"It's not your fault or mine. It's probably Maxwell Wallace's, honestly. Anyone who uses kids for money very easily could teach them to love music more than food."

The room falls silent again, and it is Louis' turn to set down his drink. "Have I told you I'm thinking about taking up some form of boxing?"

She tilts her head to look up at him. "No, you didn't."

"Morning runs aren't cutting it. I was passing a gym on me way home from work, and there was a guy using this punching bag. I was so stressed that day it honestly looked appealing." He runs a hand over his face. "I'd never get one for the apartment. There's not enough space, and it would freak out Evan anyway. But the past year has been so stressful that I feel like a powder keg about to go off." He glances at Lyla. "I don't want to start yelling at you or Ev, when I can just get meself a gym membership instead."

She smiles softly. "That sounds like a wonderful idea."

"And for the record, I'm not stressed _because_ of you or Evan. It's just the trial and the nightmare that was practically adopting our own son and dealing with Marshall and me dad-"

She puts a hand over his. "I understand."

"You always do," he breathes, because it's true. Only Lyla and now Evan seem to comprehend him; even Marshall doesn't always follow his younger brother's thought process. There was a reason Louis wrote the songs and his older brother was in charge of their band's finances.

But Lyla and Evan know to listen to their hearts better than most, and they know there is a world outside of cold hard facts. Louis again swears to himself that he will never raise his own son to shut down his emotions, like his own father did in Louis' childhood. There's a reason he left Ireland at eighteen and never looked back, and he will do everything in his power to make sure Evan grows up in a household completely different from the one Louis did.

But Evan was damaged even before he appeared in his parents' lives, and Louis hates himself for feeling powerless. Fathers are supposed to protect and defend and shelter, not just stand there and be unable to help their children. But he reminds himself that Evan has gone through things they will probably never understand and perhaps never fully know. His son's wellbeing is more important than Louis feeling in control of the situation, and Evan comes first no matter what.

When Louis had dreamed of Lyla in the years they were apart, he had wanted to find her and give her the world. He just hadn't thought much of a child entering the picture, at least not one like Evan. Louis knew even back then he wanted children, and specifically children with Lyla. But that had been daydreams of vague blond heads, waiting to be named once he found Lyla and married her. Marshall had laughed at him when Louis dared to mention as a teenager that he actually wanted a wife, but Louis hadn't and still doesn't want just a ring and a piece of paper. He had always wanted a soulmate, like their mother had said; not just a little housewife waiting for him at the end of the day, but a woman to share love and music and all of life with at his side. Lyla fits the bill perfectly, and Evan is more wonderful than he had ever dared hope.

But life is not a fairytale, and the boy had more problems than most. And Evan wouldn't have issues, would he, if Louis had known of his son's very existence. If he had found a way to stay with Lyla. If they had raised their child together away from the reach of Maxwell Wallace–

Yet Louis has learned the hard way that life happens whether he wants it to or not, but something he _can_ control is the way to go about helping Evan. And there seems to be nothing to be done other than to ask a professional for assistance with his own son.

"Hey, Lyls?"

"Hmm?" She blinks drowsily, but doesn't seem to be inclined to leave the couch, so he continues. He just has to draw a steadying breath to calm his nerves first.

"What do you think about getting married? The concept of it?"

Some people talk about being nervous to ask this question, but before now, he always thought no one should be afraid to ask another to marry them. Wouldn't that mean you honestly aren't sure of the answer and commitment of the other person? But now he understands.

What if he's asking too soon? They've been reunited for a year now, and though they still haven't slept together, they've been living in the same apartment to keep costs down, and it all feels like where he is supposed to be. But then she is moving away from his side, sitting up and looking at him from the other side of the couch, and he's suddenly terrified that he's pushed his luck too far.

"Do you want to get married?"

He nods, throat dry. "Yeah, I do."

She smiles, and everything is right with the world in the very curve of her mouth. "I was thinking about it too."

"I wasn't thinking it had to happen tomorrow. Just at some point."

Lyla tucks her lower lip between her teeth for a moment. "When I was a girl, and honestly even in the years after I met you, I was that girl who would daydream about her wedding. The church, the flowers, the dress, everything. When I was in high school, I imagined marrying my favorite actor, but of course I've only pictured you ever since."

"Who was your favorite actor?" Louis asks with a grin.

She colors. "Tom Cruise."

He tries not to laugh too loudly for the sleeping Evan's sake. " _Tom Cruise_?"

She turns an even deeper shade of red and looks down at her nail polish. "So, back to the original topic. I didn't want to say anything before about getting married, because you had so much more to take in than me. At least I knew Evan existed all these years."

"I'm used to it all now." He reaches for her hand across the couch, and she weaves her fingers through his. "But we don't have to say we're engaged just yet, or even consider ourselves engaged. I'll go out and get a ring–"

"I don't need a ring," she says. "I mean, eventually I guess, but at the same time it's not totally necessary. You don't need to get down on one knee, or have put candles and roses all over the apartment."

He tilts his head. "You _did_ just say you dreamed of your wedding when you were young."

"Things have changed. I have changed. My priorities have shifted. We could get married in sweatpants for all I care." She locks gazes with him. "I want you, not an event."

"I still want to get you a ring."

"Something simple, then. Evan needs new clothes more than I need diamonds."

They look at each other for a moment, and he memorizes the details of her eyes all over again. It is somewhat ironic that he is the Irish native between them and she is the one with green eyes. "So are we engaged, then?"

She doesn't try to hold back her smile. "I believe we are."

Their kiss isn't as earnest and desperate and fumbling as the night they met; they have kissed a few times since finding each other again, but this one is different. This kiss feels like _home_.

But thirteen years is a long time, and before they know it, he's practically on top of her when she gasps, "Wait."

He leans back, seeing an old scar running up her stomach where the hem of her shirt has shifted, and realizes the mark has to be from her c-section. "What?"

"Evan's still in the next room."

He pulls away entirely, and they both straighten to sit side by side on the couch. "It's getting late," Lyla sighs after they catch their breath, getting to her feet, but pauses. "I've been waiting a long time to call myself Mrs. Connelly."

"It does have a certain ring to it, doesn't it?" he adds, and she grins.

"It certainly does," she says, and he watches her head down the hall, but she pauses to look back at him before going into her room.

* * *

The next day, he goes to a jeweler's with Evan.

"Do you think your mum would like this one?" Louis asks his son as the employee shows them a gold ring with one small princess cut diamond.

Even though she doesn't say a word, Louis can feel the woman's thinly veiled judgement that he is only buying a ring for the mother of his child when Evan is twelve, and not any sooner. But this is for him and Lyla, and in a way for Evan too.

And this time, no one else gets a say in this.


End file.
